


Outrun

by jawtitan (artyskepty)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-03 21:10:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12154875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artyskepty/pseuds/jawtitan
Summary: Running. What did it even matter? Everyone’s running. (ficlet featuring Bertl in an outrun aesthetic. tempted to write more.)





	Outrun

**Author's Note:**

> Props to the people who gave my dumb Tumblr post notes, y'all inspired me to think more about this. Seriously tempted to extend this concept a bit further?

Someone - he forgets who - someone he knew a few years ago, reduced now to a blurry face and a chuckle over a glass of cider, once told him that there were two types of drivers: those running toward something, and those running away from something.

He remembers laughing the comment off with a breathy, almost muttered ‘you’re full of shit’, because honestly, was there much distinction between the things that person had said?

Anyway, it was something he was pondering as the chilled night air stroked at his face, blew back his hair from where it normally flopped onto his forehead in an otherwise indistinguishable cut. Reiner once told him how good it looked slicked back (”It brings out the rest of your face. Pretty eyes. Nice lips.”), but he knew the extra attention would only bring him anxieties he didn’t need to have. So he’d never done anything. But sometimes it was windy, and he was driving, and it couldn’t be helped.

He slows down a bit - with the highway near-empty in the throes of midnight, he can afford to do so - the thrum of the engine shifting from a satisfying purr to more of a loud growl, of which the jerking sensation spreads more tangibly through his arms and legs, like someone’s running a current through him. Blue streetlight glares above him, a colour that simultaneously makes him feel alert and yet strains his eyes. The city looms in the foreground.

Feeling an odd sort of pull, he hazards a look behind him - roads, empty, nothing. He feels that if he were to turn back now, he’d be driving into a void. Nothing is behind him. Everything that had happened had vanished, dissipated the moment he’d drove away. He turns back, feeling the icy kiss of the air against his face and neck, where sweat had beaded. His jacket flaps in the wind. He’s cold, but inside he feels hot. Anxiety simmers in his chest, but it’s a beast he’s familiar with at this point. It burns the same way whiskey does.

Running toward something, or running away from something… What exactly is he doing tonight, driving alone, the city rushing up to meet him? 

He feels the dead weight of the pistol in his pocket, and, as if only just realising it was there, almost manically flings it out of his pocket, no direction other than away. It clatters against the concrete on the edge of the emergency lane, and is quickly ushered out of sight as he speeds forward. Nothing is behind him.

Running. What did it even matter? He couldn’t help but think. Everyone’s running.


End file.
